


Got Us Feelin' All Right

by forochel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Pianist, Fluff, M/M, Musician Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:21:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/forochel/pseuds/forochel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras, finagled into a birthday dinner (his) with his best friends, meets <i>the most beautiful man in the world</i>.</p><p>(eta: whoops, sorry; have fixed that coding error!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Got Us Feelin' All Right

The restaurant that Combeferre and Courfeyrac have taken Enjolras to for his birthday has chandeliers hanging from the ceiling, glittering in warm, low light. The floor is shiny, polished parquet, and there’s a no children below twelve policy.

“This is everything that I stand against,” Enjolras says, once they’re seated and the maître d' has bustled away.

“It’s all organic, free-range, and locally-sourced food,” Combeferre tells him, opening up the menu. 

Courfeyrac does likewise. “They’re backing Britain, just like Waitrose.”

Enjolras can’t help his snort. 

“I told you not to bait him,” Combeferre says reproachfully. “But really. They’ve committed to the London Living Wage, and they donate all their leftovers to the homeless.” 

“We did our research,” Courfeyrac widens his eyes. “ _And_ they do an excellent crème brûlée. Or so I’ve heard.”

“Ah,” says Enjolras. So they’re here because Courfeyrac wanted to try their food, and Enjolras’s birthday was a good excuse. He gives himself a shake and reminds himself not to be cruel. His best friends had probably wanted to feed him up, as Courfeyrac’s nan keeps on exhorting them to do whenever she sees Enjolras. “All right then. Thanks, you guys.” 

They order, and chat — light, nothing conversation; Courfeyrac skilfully steers it away from ABC-related matters to Combeferre’s latest Recalcitrant Patients stories, Courfeyrac’s PhD woes, and when their starters arrive they talk about that and European backpacking holidays past. 

At the tail end of their main course, the combination of good wine, excellent food, and better company has lulled Enjolras into feeling mellow and relaxed. He’s leaning back in his chair, absently swirling his glass of wine and listening to Combeferre and Courfeyrac bicker gently about cats, when _the most beautiful person in the world_ saunters past the table behind Combeferre. 

Sharp-eyed Courfeyrac asks, “What is it?”

Turning his head, Combeferre adds, “Or who?”

“What? What?” Courfeyrac looks wildly around, and Enjolras frantically reaches out to clamp his head in place. 

“Not so obvious, you idiot!” 

“Yur squishing mah ch’ks,” Courfeyrac complains, and Enjolras releases him, sitting back in his chair. “But who? Who is this mystery man? Where? I can’t believe I missed him.”

Said mystery man has stopped in the lee of a fluted column, talking to a waiter. They laugh, and then he climbs up the dais, on which stands a baby grand piano. He flicks out the back of his ill-fitting suit jacket, sits down at it, and Enjolras feels his mouth go dry. He reaches blindly for some water and his wine glass is only just saved from being knocked over by Combeferre.

“Him?” Courfeyrac asks doubtfully. “That’s not usually your type. When you have a type.”

“You’re a philistine,” Enjolras informs him. “And very rude.” He returns pointedly to picking at his chicken. The portions are larger than he’s used to, but Enjolras doesn’t want to waste food.

Combeferre says, “Maybe he’s had too much wine.”

“It’s his birthday,” says Courfeyrac. “He deserves as much wine as he wants.”

“ _He_ ,” Enjolras says testily, “is sitting here.”

“ _He_ should finish his food,” Courfeyrac says, laying his fork and knife deliberately at four o’clock across his empty plate. 

“I’m eating!” Enjolras complains.

“You’ve ruined it!” Courfeyrac says, but he’s smiling and so is Enjolras. Combeferre smiles fondly at the both of them and pushes his glasses up his nose.

“He’s quite good,” says Combeferre, tilting his head towards the dais.

“Maybe we should call him Piano Man,” says Courfeyrac.

Shrugging in a way that he hopes is nonchalant, Enjolras says, “It’s just pretty lift lobby music.” The looks that both Combeferre and Courfeyrac give him indicate his failure at nonchalance.

As if he were psychic, or had super hearing, Piano Man starts playing a familiar tune. 

Combeferre raises his eyebrows and then starts laughing quietly. “ _Girl with Flaxen Hair_? I think he likes you, Enjolras.”

“Still lift music,” Enjolras says, but when he looks up at the dais, Piano Man has his head turned to look straight at him. Even in the low lighting, the hazel of his eyes is piercingly clear. Enjolras flushes hot all over, almost immediately; he feels caught in that strange, grave gaze. It is only when Piano Man’s lips quirk that Enjolras gathers himself together enough to look away, feeling incomprehensibly indignant. 

How dare he smirk? Why is Enjolras feeling hot all over? Why are his best friends twinkling at him? He is beset and betrayed on all sides.

A waiter comes round with a bowl containing slips of paper — for requests, he murmurs — and Courfeyrac takes a slip when Enjolras stubbornly refuses to: 

“Write do you like me check yes or no,” Courfeyrac cajoles.

“No,” says Enjolras, and chews angrily on his chicken.

“Fine,” Courfeyrac says, “I’ll do it for you then.”

He refuses to let either Combeferre or Enjolras look at what he’s scribbling down, curving his right hand protectively over his writing. 

“I will kill you,” Enjolras promises darkly.

“Murder on your birthday won’t get you acquitted,” Courfeyrac says lightly, and drops the request back into the bowl. 

Enjolras has finally finished his chicken when the bowl makes its way back to the dais. There is a spreading hush when the opening bars of Padam Padam ring out on the piano, filtering through the white noise of chattering diners.

“Really?” Enjolras asks sceptically, but then chokes on his water when R opens his mouth to sing, because holy mother of god, that _voice_. It’s a light and husky tenor, a slight hoarseness to it that adds some verisimilitude, and that probably comes of smoking. Enjolras would disapprove but maybe after the blood’s come back from pooling in his groin. He has an excellent vantage point from which to watch that perfectly modelled mouth shape itself round the French and looks away only when Combeferre clears his throat. 

“Dessert?” Courfeyrac asks, looking like he’s about to burst with glee. Combeferre, by nature more restrained, radiates amusement — as is the waiter who’d previously brought around the request slips, standing patiently with an order pad in hand.

“A crème brûlée, please,” he says to the waiter, whose name tag reads ‘Feuilly’, trying hard not to blush. 

“So that will be a peach and mango sorbet, a rum baba, and a crème brûlée,” Feuilly says. “He goes by ‘R’, by the way.”

While Enjolras is recovering, Feuilly’s already walked off and logged their order, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“R of the beautiful voice,” Courfeyrac says dramatically. “And the —”

“— please make him shut up,” Enjolras implores Combeferre. 

Combeferre grins, “And the talented fingers, and possibly other things too.”

“If you were Jehan you’d be writing him your anti-sonnet, wouldn’t you? Your Dark Lady,” Courfeyrac says. 

“I hate you both,” Enjolras moans, just as R hits a high, soaring descant in another song. “ _Fuck_.”

Courfeyrac pats Enjolras on the hand mockingly. “Poor baby. It’s your birthday; you’re allowed to have hormones on your birthday.”

He’s saved by a little echoing thud and hiss as R accidentally leans too far into his mic and clacks his teeth against it.

“Ow,” he says wryly to scattered laughter. Enjolras, to his absolute horror, can feel the back of his neck heating up again. R continues after chuckling along with his audience. “Anyway, I’ve got a special request here, for one ...” he trails off to squint at the paper. “Sorry, mate, I can’t read your friend’s handwriting. It’s lovely, but illegible.”

Enjolras swivels his head round to glare at Courfeyrac. “What have you done?” he hisses.

Courfeyrac looks like the cat that got the cream.

Taking a sip from the glass of wine next to him, R continues, “But happy birthday, E-something, and here’s your song.”

“... what is this,” Enjolras asks after a while.

“ _You make me feel_ ,” R sings, grinning around the words, eyes sparkling with humour, “ _like a na-tu-ral womaaaaan._

“What.” 

But even Combeferre is grinning, and then Feuilly suddenly appears with their desserts and an extra surprise. There’s a candle sticking out of a small strawberry sponge, compliments of the chef, and Feuilly whips out a lighter. R modulates the song somehow into an embellished version of Happy Birthday. 

“Thank you,” he mutters, certain he’s glowing like a neon sign. 

R ends the song on an extended trill. _Everyone_ in the dining is staring at him. All Enjolras wants to do is sink into the floor. He can lead demos and give stirring speeches, but this is just embarrassing. 

“Make a wish,” R says into the mic, and Enjolras closes his eyes. Just to shut everyone out. Then he blows out the candle, R ends the trill on a bright arpeggio, and everyone bursts into applause. 

“Oh god,” says Enjolras, “I wish I hadn’t cut my hair.” He tries shaking it down across his face anyway. 

Combeferre and Courfeyrac mercifully leave him alone with his crème brûlée, which is as good as Courfeyrac had heard, while R plays another song request: a jazzy Nothing I Do before taking his break. 

Enjolras can’t help but watch from under his eyelashes as R makes his way back through the room. His traitorous heart starts thumping harder as he winds his way closer, and closer, and comes to a stop right by their table. 

“Hey,” R says, sounding almost shy. Enjolras looks up from the break of his trousers and catches his breath. In close quarters, R is slightly more real; his nose looks twice-broken and there are fine lines spidering out from the corners of his eyes. This does not make Enjolras want to touch him any less. 

"Hey,” Enjolras replies. He is distantly aware of his friends’ curious eyes. 

“So,” R starts and then he laughs. It is self-deprecating, as is the way he sticks his hands into his pockets and shuffles his feet. “Um. Happy birthday?” 

“Thanks,” says Enjolras, feeling a little like the air around them has turned to molasses. 

R blinks and tries another smile on. It’s crooked, and Enjolras wants to kiss it off his face so, so badly. 

“I was thinking,” R says in a rush, “that maybe you could choose another song if you wanted? I mean, I have about three more requests to do, but if you don’t mind staying until the end, I could sing another one for you. Special, like.” 

Enjolras’s first instinct is to demur; he has to go to the library early tomorrow morning to ensure a seat, he has too much work to do, he has to — but then Courfeyrac kicks him under the table and Enjolras says, “That would be nice, thank you.” 

“Oh, good,” says R, looking relieved, smile blossoming. “Um, what would you like?” 

“What do you know?” asks Enjolras, not meaning the note of challenge. 

“Try me,” R says. There’s a wicked edge to his smile now. Enjolras really wishes they were elsewhere. 

Enjolras looks him up and down thoughtfully, noting the dusky flush to R’s cheeks with pleasure. “Surprise me.” 

“You might regret that,” R says, still smiling, and when he walks away to the bar there is a slight swagger to his step. 

When Enjolras turns back to the table, Combeferre and Courfeyrac are looking at him with raised eyebrows. 

“Distract me,” he tells them, and takes a gulp of wine. 

They do so, but not without some light teasing from Courfeyrac. Their discussion of the NHS reforms takes them through all four of R’s request songs, and the restaurant is mostly empty by the time R clears his throat nervously. The last table but theirs is just getting up to leave, and all around them waiters are clearing tables and replacing tablecloths. 

“I think we should go,” Combeferre says, signalling for the bill. 

“But—” Enjolras protests. 

Feuilly arrives promptly with the bill, card reader presciently in hand. “Good dinner?” he asks, looking tired. 

“Excellent,” Courfeyrac says with meaning, entering his PIN and giving Feuilly the reader back. 

“Thank you very much,” adds Combeferre, wiping his mouth neatly with his napkin. 

“So,” R’s voice echoes oddly through the room now that the diners are all gone. “You probably won’t know this?” He strokes a plaintive minor intro out of the ivories and starts crooning, “ _Clickin’ by your house about two forty five, sidewalk sundae strawberry surprise_ ,” scratchy and suave, and Enjolras says, “Oh my god.” 

“That’s probably our cue to leave,” Combeferre says, standing up. Feuilly has left without Enjolras noticing. 

“Okay,” Enjolras says absently. 

“Definitely leaving,” Courfeyrac says, and ruffles Enjolras’s hair. “God, he didn’t even protest. Bye, Enjolras. Don’t do anything I would.” 

“Bye,” Enjolras says, barely sparing them a glance. 

The song, stripped down to just the piano and R’s voice, shivers its way into Enjolras’s bones, and he distantly notices the scrape of his chair as he stands up to walk to the piano. R’s voice wobbles a bit when Enjolras sits down on one end of the bench and reaches over to flick the mic to mute, so that they sit in a bubble of their own, R’s singing light and flirtatious over the piano line: _and I’m your ice cream man,_ he promises Enjolras from underneath thick, dark lashes. 

The song crashes to discordant close when Enjolras kisses him. 

R opens up beautifully under his mouth, tasting vaguely of wine and smoke, hands coming up to grasp at Enjolras’s arms; he moans and all Enjolras wants to do is bend him over the piano and — 

“GET A ROOM, GRANTAIRE,” someone shouts, and Enjolras jerks back, eyes wide. Fuck, he’d completely forgotten; the colour is high in R — _Grantaire_ ’s cheeks, but there’s laughter in his eyes, and Enjolras almost leans back in. Grantaire pushes him away, grinning, and shouts back, “YOU HAVE ONE FOR HIRE?” 

“FUCK OFF,” says the someone, who turns out to be the maitre d'. 

“Sorry,” Grantaire says to Enjolras. “Just — let me go get paid, and then we can, we can go. Is that good?” 

“Yeah,” Enjolras says breathlessly. “I, um, should I wait here?” 

Grantaire laughs, pulling Enjolras to his feet as he stands. “For everyone to stare at? I don’t think you’d like that.” He leads the way down the dais, fingers burning against Enjolras’s skin where they’re wrapped around his forearm. Enjolras is left to wait near the entrance and watch the waitstaff close up the restaurant, replacing tablecloths and cutlery with elegant efficiency. He feels itchy underneath his skin and warm all over, a yawning pit of _something_ stretching open in his belly. Anticipation and nervousness, maybe -- and the flush of lust when he sees Grantaire come walking back towards him. 

He blinks rapidly, trying to think of something to say, but Grantaire removes that dilemma for him by taking his hand and pressing a friendly “hello” into the corner of his mouth. 

“Oh,” Enjolras says dazedly, and lets Grantaire lead him out into the drizzly London night. 

*

The sunlight slanting in through Grantaire’s venetian blinds, embodied by dust motes swirling in the air, gently wakes Enjolras. He is pleasantly tangled up in Grantaire, whose dark head of wild curls rises and falls gently on Enjolras’s chest with every breath, whose fingers are curled over Enjolras’s hipbone, whose toes press against Enjolras’s calf.

When Grantaire blinks his eyes stickily open, the blooming bubble of feeling pushes the words out of Enjolras’s throat. “I want to take you on a date.”

The long pause that follows sends his mind in all directions, as does the blank look in Grantaire’s eyes.

Then Grantaire yawns and stretches, which rubs his bare skin up against Enjolras’s in all kinds of interesting ways. “That’s nice,” Grantaire says, smiling sleepily; Enjolras’s heart skips a beat. “When?”

He thinks about the library, and his stacks of books, and his piles of undergraduate essays to mark; then he thinks about how warm Grantaire is, and the sweep of those thick lashes against smooth skin, and how Grantaire’s now absently nuzzling at his sternum. “In an hour, for breakfast, if you’re free.” 

Grantaire raises his head questioningly. “An hour?”

Enjolras grins and rolls them over, thrilling at the answering smile that sparks. “Make that two.”

***

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Billy Joel's Piano Man. 
> 
> Restaurant!Pianist!Grantaire sort of took my brain hostage when I was having afternoon tea in a really nice hotel post-graduation with the APs. I had loads of fun writing this and I hope the idea tickles you as much as it did me! I hope I made it clear enough that R's a PoC... and also fade-to-black is my best friend \o/


End file.
